Growing Somewhere

It's high time I grew up. Or at least wrote about it... Because I'm getting old. Very old. My knees and back are terrible, I have the agility and coordination of a man quadruple my age, and the last time I played Brain Age, I think my mental age was like 67. The physical aspects of my early onset aging would probably improve if I didn't drink upwards of a gallon of sweet, sweet Coke per day. If you call a life without Coke a life at all, that is.. But the aspect of my age that concerns me far more is my maturity. And yes, I do mean the lack thereof. Day after day, I get further reaffirmation of just how alarmingly immature I really am. Take this weekend for instance. I went up to Virginia to see my incredibly awesome friends. When I presented my parents with my plans, the conversation went something like this (at least in my memory): 

Me: I wanna go to SVU to see my friends this weekend. Real bad.

Parentals: Yeah.. How are you gonna pay for that? You spent all of your money on Taco Bell and clothes. It's even on your stupid blog.

M: Well, you have money.

P: That we do. Like the money we're using to send you to China. And put gas in your car that you suck at driving. And buy a house. And put 4 children through college. That money. 

M: .....Yes. That money. I would really appreciate it. I just need like $40.

P: $40?!?! Do you know how much you eat?!?! You'd need AT LEAST $100 for food alone! (fat joke)

About an hour of intense, hurricane strength begging followed-without any shred of dignity. We eventually had a stalemate, as the Dixons are excellent arguers. I'm pretty sure our coat of arms shows a bunch of medieval dudes shouting at one another and refusing to admit fault to anything, ever. Heritage aside, I gradually saw the error of my ways. Oh yeah, I did squander my money on fake chicken tacos smothered in Heaven only knows what... I will not be able to drive 400 miles without filling up my car, which costs money. And I will have to eat at some point. And my parents, reasonable people that they are, knew I really wanted to see some friends. So the trip happened. I made a scheme, right then, to be as frugal as I possibly could. Ha! I'll show them!! I'll starve myself and give them their money back! I'd present my parents with a big wad of the cash that I didn't spend. They'd hold me in such high esteem. "Look at our son, not spending money. Maybe we should rotate the food storage, because the apocalypse is obviously imminent." My plan failed, miserably. I came home with about $3. I couldn't even be frugal out of spite!! Perhaps the scariest thing about all of this is what I had planned to do about a year ago. I was saving all my money to go to school in Boston. I had just enough for rent and the security deposit. I planned to stick with my valet job for one more year to make up the rest. I was gone, and I was never coming back. Had I stayed at home, this disaster of a life decision would have gone through. Retrospectively, I think I would have lasted about 24 minutes in Beantown. Or anywhere on my own, for that matter. I'd break down when I realized I couldn't have a Chelsea Lately marathon every night, because I'd have to wake up and do some thankless job to pay rent. Smoked salmon is no longer a culinary option, even for bagels. Heck, even bagels are probably too expensive. And I can't get season tickets to the Celtics and still expect to have electricity. Then there would be the questions, with no one around to answer them. What? I have to pay taxes?! The interest is HOW much?! My next question would have doubtlessly involved directions to the Massachusetts Welfare Department and a few good homeless shelters. I was not ready. I'm still not. And I have a hunch I'm not alone, for people in my age bracket at least. I may be immature, but the haunting truth is that I'm probably better off than a lot of people. Has anyone ever watched The Jersey Shore? Yeah. I think I have them beat. But surely there is a fine line between functionality and failure in the real world. It separates the people who pay their bills on time from the people who use them as joint paper. The people with stainless steel kitchens from the people who have to open up soup cans by pounding them with butcher knives. The people who wear suits every day from the people who fish their filthy Ed Hardy t-shirts from a pile of clothes on the floor. It's a thin line indeed, and it's scary. When I'm 25, no one will care what Daddy did. I won't be on the Family Share Plan anymore. I can't take weekend trips with no money. And 25 is soon. We'll all age no matter what, and it's getting time to pull it together. Maybe I'll learn a thing or two from the millions of starving Chinese people. I'm sure they'll point out how I bring dishonor upon my family like all the time. Probably every day. Despite John Mayer's protest to the contrary, there is such a thing as the real world. And unless some stacks of ca$h fall out of a flying pig and land in the living room, it's not gonna be easy. Truth be told, some people never grow up. They're the people you see driving their 1989 Mercury Topazes with bumper stickers like "My Other car is a Broom" or "Horn Broken, Watch For Finger." They mix their vodka with Kool Aid and steal the neighbor's cable. Winners. Or the lucky ones end up like Snooki, with all due respect to Miss Polizzi. And we all know she'll either die from some drugs or become culturally irrelevant, whichever happens first. But I'll give my readers the benefit of the doubt and assume they aren't stupid. I mean, there are quite a few 3 syllable words in here. Hopefully we'll grow up soon. Because no matter how we try to turn back the clock, we're all growing somewhere.

Looking Eastward/Homelessness

In a few days, I will be officially homeless. After a long day of moving, there is basically no furniture left in Parents House #1, as I've come to call it, for we hauled it all, box by box, to Parents House #2. (Movers? Ha!! We're Appalachians!!) My parents thought they'd play a nice game I decided to call "Where to Shove Derek Until He Leaves." There are 6 members of my family, and 5 bedrooms. The math is simple, but yet my parents are still unable to find a place for me to stay.. Door #1, the playroom- which is basically the Purgatory for the furniture that didn't achieve Rec Room or Family Room status, but features such amenities as the fussball table, which no single child deserves in his or her room. Plus it has one of those creepy split doors like in a nursery, and I don't wanna be crept upon by my family. Door #2, share a room with my brother. No. Door #3 the office- That's more like it. Even if the former occupants put up what appears to be jungle themed wallpaper, I can manage for a couple of weeks if it means I have some privacy. So even though my entire family will be staying with my aunt until the new house is ready, making us all officially homeless, I am the most homeless of all. But I don't have time for such American nonsense. As you very well know, I am going to China soon. Anyone who has spoken to me for more than 6 seconds since about November knows this. I am unfathomably stoked, people. My head is filled with visions of rickshaws, miles of silk I can turn into some ballin' pajamas or a few Hugh Hefner-esque robes, pearls that I can ceremoniously toss in the air like confetti since they're apparently like 4 cents. I will stuff my face with rice, noodles, and whatever else they eat, and on my return to America, my chopstick proficiency will put everyone to shame. And besides the chance to live abroad for 18 weeks and Anglicize the little Asian nuggets with my English skillz, I get to take advantage of the awesome Chinese currency exchange rate. Which, to my understanding is basically 7.4 trazillion yuan per dollar. This knowledge is even making it difficult to spend money now. $8 for a BK combo?!?! I could buy a Kia Rio for that in the Orient!! I can't wait to buy presents for everyone. And I can't wait for the customs people to see what I bring to the U.S. My plans? 1 suitcase of jade lions, 1 of pearls for the lovely ladies, 1 of tailored suits, and 1 of throwing stars, in case people get sassy with me/get all up in my grill. Yeah, suck it, TSA. That's what you get for running people through those naked pervert scanners and making me take off my shoes! My feet don't always smell good, ok?!? So with most of my yuan already mentally spent, my thoughts return to my living situation. After some contemplation, it doesn't bother me a bit where I live. I have no home. And I could care less. Having all my stuff doesn't make a home for me. People do. And even as I am tossed all over the world, I keep my friends and family in my memory, on my mind, and in my prayers. My roots aren't set in any specific location, nor will they ever be. My roots are set in "my" people. My friends from high school, from work, from Southern Virginia- I know there are people I can talk to whenever, wherever I am. My family watches out for me the best they can, even when I am on the other side of the world. As long as any vermin are small enough to be vanquished with Birkenstocks, I will put up with any living situation. Because surrounded by the love and good wishes of the people I care about, I know I will always be home.

A Class Act

Occasionally, I allow myself a couple of minutes of self-reflection. If I reflect too much, I usually end up blowing the dust off my fitness club card and vowing to read a classic novel by the end of the month or other such self improvement nonsense. So I try to avoid it when I can. But a few nights ago, a haunting question came to my mind- am I white trash? The quick answer seems to be no. I mean, I wear sweaters like all the time. I speak moderate Spanish, and I have a Kindle, people. That is a trifecta of classiness. But when I initially asked myself the question, I had just polished off a pack of Frosted Strawberry Pop Tarts and some string cheese. In bed. Again. This particular instance of reclined gorging was to celebrate the It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia mini-marathon that I was having at the time. The final episode I saw really got me thinking. Its title? "Mac and Charlie: White Trash." If that's not a wake up call, I don't know what is. The plot was thick with hilarity, shenanigans, and class warfare. But I'm not a television critic. If you want to watch it, be my guest. Otherwise, I could seriously care less. So at the culmination of this episode, I decided to take stock of my trash. First and foremost, there was the literal trash evidenced in the halo of food wrappers around my head. That needed to be dealt with pretty much immediately. Trash 1, Class 0. Once the debris was cleared, I began some serious thinking. My driving habits. Now, before all the cyber world, I will admit that I am an aggressive driver. Notice how I did not say bad. Aggressive. When the situation calls for it, that's just fine. But as much as I'd like to, I don't live New York or Boston or Philly or DC. I live in Kingsport, Tennessee. And the situation in Kingsport never, ever calls for the kind of lane weaving, neck craning, tailgating prowess that I have. In a town where Wal-Mart is the nexus of the social universe, it's just embarrassing. And rednecky. Oh yeah, and I drive an old pickup truck. Trash 3, Class 0. I go barefoot in the summer as much as possible. I shop at Wal-Mart. Basically every day. (Don't judge me; it's really close to my house.) I used to eat pie with my hands, because I thought it was OK to do. Sometimes I just want to shout "YEE HAW" for no reason. I vacation near Myrtle Beach. I watch The Jersey Shore every so often. I'm loud, Southern, and willing to make a fool of myself when pressured to do so. And the tide of garbage continues to rise. I'm not saying that I have a brood of illegitimate children crawling all over me while I write this blog. And you'll probably never see me drinking Natty Light out of a paper bag in a cutoff flannel shirt, but sometimes my gut just tells me to fry up a sandwich and take it to bed for a nice Law and Order marathon at 2 in the afternoon. I should know better. When the commercials are all title loans and class action lawsuits, it's time to turn off the TV. I don't want to dispose of all my fun quirks. A little grit has its place in everyone's personality, and I'm proud of my...uhm....down-to-Earth-ness... But I also realize that I must tame the trashy beast that clearly lurks inside my classy shell. My New Year's Resolution? Take out the trash.

Scurvy and Other Tales

Conditions in Tennessee have deteriorated significantly.
My home is a sea of boxes that I have collected trip by trip from the liquor store. In my pajama bottoms.
It looks like we're having the Christmas of a lifetime, complete with a roving band of thirsty Russians.
This is not the case. Each box is filled not with Goose and Jack, but oven mitts and candles, books and serving plates. And then there's me, shoving all my clothes into them as well, listening to good ol Ke$ha all the while. And the people buying our house? They seem nice, to be honest, but they're a little ridonk. They keep asking my parents to replace lightbulbs. And they want cash for all the "home repairs." Sketchy much? I would love to tell them where they could shove their lightbulbs, but this is an all-ages blog. Also, I'm pretty sure I have scurvy. You see, the sore on my chin has passed the realm of acne, and has entered the "boil" stage. This is bad news, as it prevents me from ever wanting to go out in public again until it disappears. And I am just too dang social for that bull. Plus, I haven't eaten fruit of any kind in probably about 5 months, so that could be a problem. I am unfamiliar with the symptoms of scurvy, but I'm pretty sure "boils and lesions" is right up near the top of the list. I will Web MD it at my earliest convenience. My room is a pretty boring place. The walls have been painted, and all of my personal effects were put into storage. Apparently, potential home buyers would be put off by my extensive shot and martini glass collection, Megan Fox poster, and the framed Entertainment Weekly covers on my wall. Beats me. My armoire and my closet are empty, and I just recently got all my new Virginia clothes put away. All of these tiny distresses are augmented by the fact that I am currently #Thug-less. I miss my SVU friends so much. You guys have no idea. And I have been on exactly zero dates since I've been home. All the while, my parents are busily preparing to move into a new house, and it's sort of legit. Too bad I am pretty much the only person in my family who cares about nice things and I will never get to live there. In no time there will be sidewalk chalk all over the circular driveway, and my 13 year old brother will be trying to cook Ramen Noodles in the bidet. Mark my words. But it's all good. My family's not pretentious enough for that nonsense anyway. At least the holidays are approaching! And by holidays, I mean Christmas. Chanukah is over, people. And Kwanzaa? Meh. I'm gonna sweep that one under the rug. Sorry. I hope I get to see all my family and friends. And some awesome presents would really make my day too. I wish I could give presents to my peeps, but my ca$h money is low. My parents can't help me out either. They're too busy buying lightbulbs, and financing a trip to China for their bratty, ungrateful son just so he can sit around all day, eating up all the good cheese and pissing them off to no end by blogging about all their family business. But I promise I'll buy stuff for you fine people someday. Until then, I suppose you can consider this whiny, poorly written blog post to be your Christmas present. I promise I'll do better next year.

Reflections On Leaving Virginia

Just a week ago today, I was packing up my disaster of a dorm room. People, it was a mess. A mountain of clothes surrounded my bed, making a pretty cozy tomb for the dust-bunnies and long forgotten textbooks underneath. On top of that, mine and Daniel's humble abode was basically a bog. For one reason or the other, water gradually seeped into the room under the linoleum for probably the entire semester. Stepping on one of the tiles (aka basically WALKING anywhere in the room) meant that putrid brown water would creep on up through the cracks. How do you like that? $12,000 and I was living in a giant swamp. At least it was a National Historic Landmark swamp. Cause THAT makes everything ok... But I digress. As I pitched my clothes haphazardly into one of my various suitcases, I was obviously pretty excited to go home to Tennhoessee. TV! Food! Stores/other civilization! My car! Adequate shower pressure! A living space that wasn't submerged in water! Family and friends! But then I started to find things tangled in the jackets and jeans that made me stop and think for a second. Flipbooks describing my adventures as a ninja. Hotel key cards from Marriotts all over the DC Metro area. The business card for "Lynchburg's Only Skyscraper Lounge." Shirts and books I had bought on trips to Roanoke. A crazy thoughtful card that two of my friends had made for me months ago. Suddenly, Tennessee seemed pretty lame. What was I thinking? Most of these people were going home for a couple of weeks. They'd chug some egg nog, get some presents, hang out with some old pals, and then return to their home in the slummy but somehow lovable Buena Vista. I, on the other hand, decided to shove off for China. Yes, I am moving to China. I can't say I regret my decision. As a guy who loves traveling, it is a once in a lifetime opportunity. But try as I might, I can't control the consequences that come with it. It seems now that my friends and I have reached that age of perpetual motion. Our lives play out not according to some predetermined plan we create, but rather as a series of unforeseeable events that gradually shape us. We move from place to place, stage to stage, always having to leave great people behind. With this knowledge at the back of my mind, I set out to make my last day in Virginia count. I begged my friend Andrew for a ride to Wal-Mart. In his awesomeness, he obliged. There, I combed the aisles for cards that weren't covered in glitter. After deliberation, I found a set, bought two, and determined to let my friends know they would be missed. The rest of the night was spent engaging in various semi-legal shenanigans while also writing an individualized message to each of the 30 people that were on my "card list." I got the chance to hand out most of the cards on Wednesday morning. By the afternoon, I had packed my last bag and sold my last book. My dad called and said he was an hour away. Then 30 minutes away. Then, all too soon, he pulled up to the front drive of Thugz Mansion. My home. Some of my friends and fellow Thugz helped carry the behemoth suitcases down, and a two of my friends sprinted down in shorts and sandals to say goodbye. How could I not miss this place, these awesome people? By nature, I am a rolling stone. I hate staying still, and dying in the town in which I was born is basically my worst fear. But I also am a loyal friend, and I really am just a huge fan of people. So despite the fact that my friends and I will be tossed around all the corners of the Earth, living our crazy lives, I will fight the odds and keep in touch. Trust me, people, I can do it. Much like the bobcat peeing out his territory in the forest, I tend to leave my mark wherever I go. So I'm not afraid of being forgotten. I'm just too loud and too weird. I can't say I will ever be back to Buena Vista after I leave for China. Who on this bloody Earth would go there for any reason other than SVU? However, I do know that in the short four months I was there, my life was changed. And I won't forget it.

The ..... Spirit.

Let me begin with an excerpt from my family history.
Once upon a time, some people came over on the Mayflower. Including my ancestor.
Then some more people came from Austria and Switzerland, through Ellis Island.
Then some Irish folk decided to move over to Southwest Virginia.
The End.
I have no awesome Latin aunt, no tomato sauce recipe from Sicily, no strange foods to eat during the holidays. Needless to say, I have been deprived by my own Lily-Whiteness.
But I do love my holidays. You see, I love being loud, celebrating things, and having people purchase gifts in an attempt to honor my awesomeness.
So, this lovely season, I decided to celebrate me some Chanukah. It's about time. Unfortunately for me,
AND THROUGH NO FAULT OF MY OWN
I am also no one's bubula.
So I took it upon myself, despite my 100% Protestant roots, to have a Chanukah cookie or two, light a candle, and sing a couple of songs. Why am I telling you this? Well, first and foremost, this is my blog, and I do what I want. And secondly, my casual and secular observance of this amazing holiday was met with some controversy. I decided to have a little celebration in the cafeteria of my 750 student, predominantly Mormon college. Yes, I am that ridiculous. As each person that mattered remotely to me walked in, I'd wish him/her a Happy Chanukah, hand him/her a cookie, and send these fine people on their way.
Some typical reactions went thusly.
Me: Happy Chanukah, have a Chanukah cookie!
Tolerant Person: Thanks, Derek! Is your family Jewish?
Me: Not remotely, I have just always wanted to celebrate Chanukah.
Tolerant Person: Even better! That's really awesome!
Me: Thanks! Mazel tov! (whatever that means)
--------
Me: Happy Chanukah!
Close Friend: Haha, Derek! You are so retarded!
Me: Wow thanks! Here's a cookie, douche.
Close Friend: Ok thanks!
(And then they'd usually continue to giggle and pat my head as they walked away.)
--------
Me: Happy Chanukah!
Person in Hallway: ....Thanks....? You're not Jewish...
Me: Nope. Here, have a Chanukah cookie. They're like cookie flavored crackers.
Person in Hallway: No. I'm not Jewish. That's weird. Thanks anyway.
Me: (rapidly inhales rejected cookie)

Some people really got into the spirit with me.  They sat at that table, and we feasted on what I can only assume are the traditional goodies of Chanukah that require no culinary preparation. Cookies, some Kosher grape juice. And a candle. It was very low key. My friends Ashley and Roxy were at that table with me, listening to excerpts from Fiddler on the Roof, and really getting pumped for the season. A jolly mazel tov to them both. My friend Bradon and I lit a candle and watched Adam Sandler's Chanukah Song on his laptop. Mazel tov to him for breaking the "No Open Flames in the Dorm" rule to help me celebrate. Of course, Courtney Golden supported me all the way. She always does. The highest mazel tov of all goes to her.
So no, I am not Jewish. I do respect the Jewish faith, and they have some fascinating traditions. Including Chanukah. And I realize that while Chanukah has no spiritual significance to me, all holidays are a time for celebration. I have great friends who celebrate with me, and I realize most people just want to have a good time. As a 3 time participant of Canada Day, and a casual observer of such holidays as Australia Day, Boxing Day, Bastille Day, and others, I consider myself a celebratory person. Because honestly, there are only two ways to look at life. You can always find things to celebrate, or you can endure the days of your self-inflicted boredom. So please, stop raining on my menorah.

Tennessee Sounds Good To Me. And Apparently, Everyone Else.

For the record, I am not a fan of Tennessee. I was bumbling around for Virginia residency the second I arrived at college. That is, until I realized that while it's horrendously flawed, Tennessee is probably the coolest state in the USA to be from. Yeah, I went there. You see, I knew all about TN's bad reputation. I'd seen that TV show with the hillbillies. And people, the stereotypes are 100% true; keep on laughing. So naturally, I didn't want people asking me if I was attracted to my cousin, or listening for an accent that isn't there. So like any yella bellied coward who done went and forgot his roots, I kept silent. But gradually, I started giving myself away. I kept holding doors for people. I refused to let my lady friends pump their gas, and I kept giving up my seats for strangers. I call salespeople “sir” or “ma'am” and tell them to have a good day. And then I realized- TARNATION- I am a Southern Gentleman! My secret is out. I remember my first time I was asked where I was from in a large group setting. I stood up and said “....tennessee....” sheepishly. And waited for the blows of judgment to rain down on me. Surely people were squinting now, looking for my lazy eye or 11^th toe. Instead I heard a “YEAH THAT'S RIGHT! YEEE HAW!! WHAT PART?” I said Kingsport, and the rest is history. As it turns out, everyone has a sister or uncle or cousin of some sort down here in the Volunteer State. Plus, people seem to think we're all pretty cool. And that I can do dangerous redneck things like skin a coon and make my own moonshine still (I can't.) These days when I go home, I stick my head out of the sunroof and greet my home state properly- by bellowing YEE HAW at the top of my lungs as we cross the state line. I suppose it's my apology for being ashamed. But it's also a tribute to my recent acceptance and gradual love of my roots. We Tennesseeans have a reputation for backwardness and bad hygiene, it's true. But what people look for the most is honesty and kindness, and they'll always find it. I can't stay in the South. But it's not because I'm not Southern. My White Guilt won't let me live peacefully in the former Confederacy. Plus, I long to live in a city that Spell Check actually recognizes, with a lot of history. A city by the ocean, maybe that has an IKEA, and a cool sports stadium, and a P.F. Chang's or 4. So it's off to the North with me. But I'll be singing Rocky Top the whole way.

In closing, a short list of things that make Tennessee great:

-Coke

-chivalry

-pulled pork sandwiches

-ribs

-heck, bbq in general

-barefootedness

-mamaws (grandmothers, Southern style. Y'all Yanks don't got 'em)

-being able to say “drank” instead of “drink.” As in “Imma get a cup of BLUE DRANK.”

-the UT Vols

-potato salad

-thunderstorms

-Rocky Top

-country ham

-Knoxville

-Oprah

-y'all

-porch swings

-and no state income tax. (ha!)